‘Don’t fall asleep reading,’ Nick warned.
‘I won’t.’
They each took a candle and Nick snuffed the others. The fire was almost out, embers pulsing with a final glow, and they left it for the servant to clear out in the morning when she came. At the top of the stairs they bid each other good night and took to their separate rooms, but despite his claims to tiredness Nick had no desire to sleep, and he sat at the window for a long time into the night, thinking of Catherine.
Chapter Six
How Wilt Thou Do for a Father?
The tailor’s shop was shut when Sarah arrived home, the workers gone for the day, and the torch was lit at the threshold, flickering bravely in the dark. Candlelight glimmered bright through a chink in the curtains in the window up above. She hammered on the door with her fist – the rain had made her cold and she was eager for the fire.
One of the maids let her in on her way upstairs with a tray of spiced wine. Sarah followed, the scent of warm cinnamon and nutmeg warm and inviting. In the main chamber above the shop a bright fire crackled and roared in the great stone hearth, spitting now and then with drops of rain through the chimney. It was a cheerful room with a generous window that looked out over the street, and the oak wood panelling that lined the walls lent the chamber a welcome warmth. Rush mats covered the wooden floor, and candles flickered brightly from the sideboard and the table. Sarah paused at the door to greet her parents with a small curtsey, then went to stand before the fire, stretching out her hands as her skirts steamed slightly with the heat. Her mother brought her wine and she took it gratefully, cradling the cup between her palms.
‘How was the rehearsal for the new play?’ her mother asked softly.
‘It’s coming along fine,’ she replied. She was reluctant to say more, wary of lighting her father’s disapproval. It was only with great reluctance he let her go there at all, trusting to her brother to keep her out of trouble. Better there, in one place and under Tom’s protection, he reasoned, than collecting piecework from all and sundry. But she was aware it was a precarious privilege.
‘What is the subject this time?’ Her father looked up from the ledger he was studying at the table.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, cautious of his interest. ‘Ambition,’ she replied, carefully. ‘A lord who wants to become a king.’
‘And does he become a king?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘For a while. But it doesn’t last – the crown was not rightfully his to take and he is corrupted by its power.’
Her father nodded, apparently satisfied, his attention wandering once more towards the ledger. Sarah took another sip of the wine and felt its heat thread through her body and touch her thoughts. She waited. He did this sometimes, allowing her to think his questions were finished, then springing more at the last moment.
‘It will play at the Globe?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said with a smile. Then, after taking a last mouthful of wine, she said, ‘I must go and change these wet clothes.’
No one answered but she was aware of Simon’s gaze, so she kept her eyes averted as she stepped across the rugs, placed the empty cup on the tray on the sideboard and left the room.
In her chamber Sarah peeled off the damp outer layers of her clothing and shivered as the cold air brushed her skin. The hearth was grey and cold and she rubbed at herself with a towel, pale skin reddening. Then she dressed herself again, in plain dark wool that felt good and warm, hanging up the damp clothes and hoping the bodice would be dry by the morning; she wanted to wear it again. She had liked the new shape of her body and had seen Nick pass his eyes across her with pleasure more than once. For a moment she sat on the edge of her bed, reluctant to go back downstairs and face her parents, in spite of the cold. She wanted to think about Nick and recall the look in his eyes when he saw her. The thought of it kindled a heat inside her, a new and unfamiliar warmth – she wondered what he was doing now, if he was still drinking with her brother or if some whore had taken his fancy and was giving him pleasure. She sighed, envious; she had only the vaguest notion of the ways a woman might pleasure a man. It was not something she could ever ask her mother: her mother’s sternness discouraged such intimate questions. Perhaps she should ask Tom, she thought. She knew without a doubt that he was skilled in such things.
Standing up, bracing herself to go downstairs for supper, Sarah ran her hands once more across her bodice and down the lines of her hips and her thighs, attempting to feel her body as a man might do and understand. Heat prickled again through her limbs and she swallowed, aware of her breathing, a new light-headedness. An image of Nick played across her thoughts, his fingers caressing the ample bosom of a whore, his other hand lifting her skirts. She hesitated, the feelings new and disturbing: she was uncertain how to respond to them, and their intensity left her breathless. She stood for a moment in the cold room, struggling to calm her breathing and quiet the restlessness in her body. Finally, when she thought she was once more in command of herself, she took a single deep breath, squared her shoulders and headed downstairs for supper.
Downstairs, the table had been cleared of books. Her father and Simon had repaired to the fireside, legs stretched out towards it. Master and apprentice spoke intermittently and they shared an easy rapport, a relationship built through long days in the shop and a mutual interest in the world of its business. Like a father and son, she thought, and tried to recall a single time she had seen her father be so at ease with her brother. There was no memory to call on and all she could bring to mind were the fights between them. Tom had never learned to accept his new father, and Master Stone had responded by trying to force his respect. Perhaps if he had tried to love Tom more, she thought, or even tried to win him by some small kindness, he would have succeeded better. But Tom, both as boy and man, would never bow to coercion, and beating after beating had only ever hardened his hatred and resolve. Now he rarely showed his face at home and their father did not seem to miss him.
Her mother was setting the table. The two servants lived out and went home with the end of the day, but supper was prepared, set out in dishes already on the sideboard. She watched her mother working for a moment. She had inherited the same body shape, she realised, slight and boyish: her mother had no bosom to speak of either. But there the similarities ended. Her mother’s face was thin and pinched. Narrow lips pursed under a beakish nose, and the lines were not of laughter but were formed of furrows across her forehead and puckers around her mouth. Thick grey streaks coursed through her hair, and for the first time Sarah understood that her mother was ageing and that her life had not been happy. A rare wave of affection filled her and when her mother lifted her eyes from the dish of boiled chicken she was holding, Sarah smiled.
‘Let me help you,’ she said, taking the dish and carrying it to the table. ‘It’s heavy.’
Her mother said nothing but simply turned away to fetch the bread.
Over supper the talk was of the shop – two gentlemen customers asking for what the tailor considered outlandish garb, the kind of thing that Frenchmen wore. Slashed sleeves with red silk inserts. But they were prepared to pay handsomely and so the work had been accepted. The two men talked of it for most of the meal, occasionally addressing remarks to her mother, until finally the subject was exhausted.
A long silence followed, growing awkward after the conversation of before. Sarah kept her eyes on her food and ate without pleasure. The meal was plain, boiled meat and bread, pickles and cheese, some raisins – the simple fare befitting a Puritan household. Then Simon, sitting across from her, looked up from his food.
‘So, Sarah, tell us more of this play,’ he said.
She was so surprised she almost choked, a piece of bread going down the wrong way, making her cough. She wondered if he understood how much her father disliked the theatre, how hard he had tried to stop his children being part of it. Apparently not. It was hard to believe he would ask such a question otherwise. How could
he be such a fool? She took a swig of ale to soothe her throat and paused to recover her breath. Simon was watching her, waiting patiently.
‘It’s called Macbeth,’ she said, when at last she could speak. ‘By William Shakespeare.’
‘Scottish?’ Simon ventured.
‘Yes. ’Tis is a tragedy.’
The apprentice nodded. There was another silence. Then her father said, ‘And does your brother play in it?’
Sarah hesitated, sliding a brief glance to her mother, who sat impassive. She had never been able to read her mother, never had the slightest idea of the thoughts that passed behind that face. Her father was watching her, waiting for an answer.
‘Just a bit part, Father,’ she evaded. ‘His main role is wardrobe-keeper, as you know.’
‘A lord, perhaps?’ Master Stone persisted. ‘A soldier?’
For another heartbeat she paused, but there was no point in lying – Tom would tell the truth of it without a second thought. ‘He plays a witch, and a gentlewoman,’ she murmured.
‘A witch?’ Her mother’s shock sounded low and breathy in the silence. Behind her the fire popped and spat as a squall of rain found its way down the chimney.
Sarah nodded. ‘It is but a small part,’ she said.
‘Dear God!’ her father exclaimed, standing up, throwing down his knife so that it clattered and skidded across the table, coming to rest just in front of her. ‘A son of mine on the stage as a woman, as a witch! It is more than I can bear.’
Her mother cast a glance up towards him and there was fear in her eyes.
‘It is just a small part, Sarah said, Husband,’ she soothed. ‘A minor role.’ She slid a questioning look to her daughter, an invitation to contribute.
‘A few lines only. Right at the beginning,’ Sarah lied. ‘To set the scene merely.’
Master Stone shook his head. ‘If even half of what I hear about your brother is true then I am glad he is no true son of mine. I would be ashamed to call him so. Since the very first he has tried me almost beyond my patience to endure. And now this … Is it not bad enough he earns his bread in such a low and sinful place?’ He rounded on Sarah, pointing a stubby finger towards her. She shrank away instinctively. ‘Did he take the part to mock me?’
Elizabeth stood and touched a hand to her husband’s arm. ‘My dear …’
He swung towards her, sweeping her hand away. ‘I’ve put up with enough from him. Years of insolence, years of debauchery. I have brought him up as my own in good faith and he has thrown every kindness back in my face. He has never tried, never once shown me respect!’
‘It is just a few lines,’ Sarah protested.
‘It matters not how many lines,’ he spat. ‘I should have stopped it years ago. The shame of it.’ He shook his head, jaw working with tension, and for a moment it seemed that the outburst was over. Then he lifted his head to look at his daughter again.
‘Does your brother think I know not how he carries on? How he brings shame on us with his lechery and his low desires? That such a boy should belong to me …’ He drew in a deep breath, tapping blunt fingers on the table top in front of him. ‘And it started with the playhouse, that hall of the Devil.’
Sarah held her breath, dreading what might be about to come. A glance towards her mother gave her no clue; the older woman’s eyes were turned away and lowered.
When Master Stone spoke again the words were directed at no one, seeming as if he were merely thinking aloud, turning over a decision to be made. ‘And yet he is a man now – godless, shiftless, steeped in vice.’ He lifted his shoulders in a shrug of resignation. ‘I can do nothing more for him but pray for God’s mercy on his corrupted soul.’
There was another silence that was filled with the tapping of his fingertips against the table and the hollow roar of the fire in the hearth. All of them waited for him to speak again. He sighed and sat down. Then, with another shake of his head he said, ‘I can bear it no more. No more.’
Sarah’s mother lifted her head and her gaze grazed Sarah’s as it slid toward her husband. ‘What mean you by that, Husband?’
‘I mean that I have done all I can for him and I will do no more. He is no longer welcome under my roof and I will no longer call him my son. He can make his own way now – I’ll see him no more.’ He gave his wife a small, thin smile. ‘But I will pray for him as I have always done.’
The silence tightened. Sarah swallowed and sought her mother’s eyes, but she had turned her head away with a sniff. Sarah rose from the table and went to her, placing an arm around her shoulders. Her father looked stonily ahead, and Simon stared morosely into his supper. For long moments the silence remained until finally her father got up from his stool without a word and walked away. They heard his footsteps tapping down the stairs, and the front door open and shut. Sarah stared at her mother, amazed.
‘Did you know?’ she asked. Her voice sounded loud in the hush. ‘Did you know this was coming?’
Her mother swallowed and shook her head slowly. ‘Your father tells me nothing, Sarah. We live together, we share a bed. But we talk of nothing save the household business and God. I barely know him. I married him when Tom’s father died to keep the roof above our heads. That is all.’
Sarah said nothing, no words to offer against her mother’s confession: though she’d long suspected it was so, it still hurt to hear it spoken.
‘I should go,’ Simon said, leaving the table. ‘You have matters to talk of.’
The women gave him no answer. Simon disappeared to his room downstairs behind the shop and they heard the muffled sound of his door latching to.
‘Did you love Tom’s father?’ Sarah said then.
‘We were happy.’ Her mother nodded, and a wistful smile touched her lips. ‘He was a good man and, yes, we married for love.’
‘I’m sorry he died.’
Elizabeth’s lips compressed into a line that masked the emotion behind it. She said, ‘Your father has fulfilled his side of the bargain. That’s all I ever asked. He gave us a home and a hearth, a measure of comfort. And he is not an evil man; he is just devoted in his faith and afraid for all our souls, especially your brother’s. You should not judge him too harshly. Tom is grown now and he’s chosen his own way. I can do nothing more to protect him.’
‘But surely …’ It seemed impossible that her father could cut him away so abruptly, so finally, and nothing to be done, no argument made in his defence.
‘We can do nothing more,’ her mother said, in a tone that closed the discussion.
Sarah was silent, but she would not let her brother go so easily. She nodded in feigned acceptance, then rushed to help as her mother began clearing away the remnants of supper.
Later, slipping out through the back door as she knew Tom had done a thousand times, she heard a voice say her name. She froze, hoping she had imagined it, the product of her fears.
‘Sarah?’ She heard it again. A male voice, spoken low. She turned toward it and saw Simon in the passage. His face loomed in the flickering light of the torch. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
She hesitated but no plausible excuse came to mind. She had not thought to be stopped by him.
‘Where are you going?’ he said in the pause. ‘The streets aren’t safe for a woman after dark.’
‘I’m going to find Tom,’ she replied. ‘To warn him what is coming.’
‘To Bankside?’ His horror at the thought of it was clear in the tone of his voice – his own Puritan tendencies rising to the surface. ‘How do you hope to find him? Surely you can’t think of going into those places by yourself?’
She shrugged. What else could she do?
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
‘No,’ she answered quickly, backing away. ‘No. I don’t need your protection.’ She could move quicker and more discreetly by herself and she knew the streets around the playhouse well.
‘If I let you go and anything happens to you, your father will kill me. If it ma
kes you feel any better I’m doing it for me, not for you.’
She said nothing, unconvinced by his argument. She had seen the way he looked at her over breakfast, over supper, and she did not want his company.
‘I’m not letting you go alone. We can stand here all night and argue if you wish.’
She sighed. He would follow her regardless; she had no choice. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’ She set off quickly, bending her head against the rain, across the garden and over the wall, refusing the help he offered her, irritated by his presence. He was soon breathing hard; in his life as a tailor’s apprentice he barely ever went outside, and Sarah was well used to walking.
‘Keep up,’ she said, when finally he stopped to catch his breath, his hand at his chest, breath coming laboured and rasping.
Nodding, he pushed himself on, plodding valiantly beside her as she wondered where Tom might be in the myriad of taverns, dice dens and bawdy houses that were the lifeblood of Bankside. She guessed she should begin at the Green Dragon, where she knew he had begun the night. After that, she had no clue. Perhaps someone there would know his whereabouts. Perhaps someone would help her.
Leaving the High Street at the market, they turned into Foul Lane. The maze of empty stalls and lanes was different in the late-night darkness, more threatening, and though she doubted he would be much help if they met trouble, she found she was glad of Simon’s presence – it was reassuring not to be alone. He trotted along behind her, his breath still coming hard, but she did not slow her pace.
At the door to the Green Dragon she stopped and swallowed hard. It was a place she knew the players haunted often, and she cast her eye across the narrow front of it, observing the archway to one side that led to the stables and the yard with rooms where you could sleep for a fee. It was one of the larger taverns, she knew, and attracted a better class of customer than some of the others, mostly travellers caught on the wrong side of the bridge and waiting for the gates to open with the dawn. But she had never been inside such a place before. Her heart was hammering and her mouth was dry. Simon stood at her shoulder, no more experienced than she was, but his presence reassured her: a woman on her own must surely be in danger. Then she cast a quick glance at him and saw he shared her fear.
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